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Thursday, December 28, 2017

Did You Have a Good Christmas?



Apart from the fact that my German Shepherd almost bit my brother-in law’s face off and left two distinct fang marks in his forehead and chin with blood streaming everywhere and apart from the fact that most of us were very pissed and there was a bit of a skirmish on the front lawn on the next door neighbour’s driveway... it was a pretty good Christmas.

Don’t ask.

We had fun.

In a sense.

We had so much fun that I almost threw up in the Robina Town Centre Food Court because of the sickly smell of sweet and sour pork when I reluctantly took my darling daughter to indulge in Boxing Day shopping.

I must admit that I had to go and lie down in the car before she finished her spending scourge, but Scotto turned on the air-conditioning in the Tucson and I somehow managed not to throw up in his brand new car.

I kept thinking about dry crackers and deserts (deserts not desserts.)

It seemed to help with the pre-spew dribbling  when thinking about really dry stuff.

Christmas is hectic and although I enjoyed all the Facebook posts displaying everyone around their Christmas table and all the posts about Eggs Benedict and civilised celebrations… my Chrismas wasn’t that picturesque or civilised.

Not at all, really.

Our celebrations were more… boganesque.

That’s alright though.

No one died.

Except Albert, my parents’ dog… on Christmas Eve

My parents were understandably devastated by the event.

Naturally, the following day, whilst analysing the dramatic and drunken events of Christmas Day,  (in the presence of my mother), I boldly stated,

“Well! At least no one DIED!”


Everyone just stared at me in mortification.

“Except Albert,” I corrected myself as my poor mother began weeping in proper grief.

Dear God, help me to keep my big effing mouth closed, I prayed to baby Jesus.

Probs the worst Christmas ever.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

When Your World is Literally About to Cave In.

Looks much worse than it appears in photo!


Scotto and I spent the past few days moving our couch closer and closer towards the telly because we were terrified the ceiling was going to collapse on top of us whenever the sub woofer kicked in.

Last week, while we were out cavorting and lunching, a cataclysmic hail storm thrust itself upon our mountain. 

Our backyard


I was worried about the animals as we drove home but they were okay, although the cat was quite pissed off...

Hail-damaged cat


“Go outside and make a snowman immediately!” I excitedly ordered Scotto, when we arrived home. 

He couldn’t do it though, because it was hail, not snow and it lacked the appropriate properties required, such as malleability.

This was reasonably discouraging, but not as discouraging as the three centimetres of water we later discovered behind the couch in our lounge room.

“Oh well,” I commented as we mopped it up. “I haven’t mopped behind here for two years. It probably needed it anyway.”

Later in the week, we both stared up at the lounge room ceiling in subdued dismay.

“Do you think those cracks in the paint and the popped nails in the ceiling have anything to do with the leak?” 
I asked Scotto, despondently.

We’ve since discovered we need to replace the entire ceiling throughout the whole damn house.

This is a nuisance because I have to take down all the pictures/paintings and remove all the ornaments around the place for when they paint.

Not to mention the fact that the house will be infested with strange tradies working in my house from early in the morning, watching me insert my false teeth whilst wearing my flea-bitten pajamas every morning… IN MY SCHOOL HOLIDAYS!

And as if that wasn’t enough, the roof guy came today to check there was no damage… and you guessed it… we need to have our ENTIRE ROOF replaced as well.

I pictured a semi-trailer meandering up the winding mountain road with a ‘wide load’ sign, carrying a large roof and followed by a long trail of extremely pissed off cars, but Scotto reassured me they bring the roof up in pieces.

What a pain in the bum this is all going to be.

I lived in the tropics for 50 years; we survived Cyclone Althea (1971), Cyclone Joy (1990), Cyclone Sid (1998), Cyclone Tessi (2000) and the mother of all cyclones, Yasi (2011).

One little hail storm up here and we have to have our roof and ceiling replaced.

A week before Christmas too.

Bugger.

And speaking of pains in the bum, Pablo the Chihuahua won’t stop licking his bum red raw even though we wormed him and I will probably have to take him to the vet which will most likely cost me a million dollars.

Why can’t we have a vet in the family?

Could Santa please make one of my children marry a vet?

Lulu recently ran into the Bondi Vet at the gym... he'd do...


Or even a ceiling/roof guy would be good...

What sort of son/daughter-in-law would be most convenient to you?


Friday, December 8, 2017

My Husband Loves Screwing Around



Sometime this year, we ousted our above ground pool because we never used it as it only gets hot enough to swim one/two days a year up here in the Gold Coast Highlands and the pool filter was escalating the fees incurred from our electricity bill (fancy way of saying our electricity bill was too fucking high).

The elderly lady who lives in the house below us probably wasn’t that impressed with 58000 litres of water spilling into her yard but we let it out slowly and we didn’t hear a peep from her.

I think her house has sunk a bit on one corner and maybe she drowned. Not really sure.

.

We decided to build decking over the resulting cavernous hole and the area is beginning to look a bit like a helipad.

Scotto estimates he has screwed in over 2000 screws so far. 



We don’t really need a helipad, but I’m positive it will come in handy when random movie stars and celebrity millionaires come to visit.

Now, after spending a fortune on timber to build this monstrosity, I suppose we will be expected to have it filled with expensive outdoor furniture.

FML.

I don’t like spending money. It’s the frugal Scottish ancestry coming out in me.

So, while Scotto has been outside in the harsh sun, building the deck and screwing his head off, I’ve been on school holidays and fruitfully employed binge watching Game of Thrones for the fourth time and attempting to replicate Cersei’s hairdos whilst sipping coffee and trimming my fungus infected toenails.

I’m constantly expecting Scotto to burst through the double dividing glass windows with a gold emblazoned screw driver and puncture my jugular in passionate revenge whilst screaming, “I’m the King of the North, why aren’t you working wench?”

But I don’t really feel guilty about him working laboriously whilst I laze around like a fat pig.

I know that each time Scotto hears the theme song of GOT echoing throughout the hallways of our castle after I’ve clicked on yet another episode, he grasps the importance of my ‘down time’ and comprehends that this is just my method of unwinding from a particularly stressful year.

I lie.

I have wasted my entire first week of my six weeks of school holidays, binge watching a very silly fantasy series which I have already watched three times.

What is wrong with me?

I’m sure I’ll break out of this careless and indolent period of hedonism sooner or later.

Maybe… next week.

Maybe.


What should I be doing instead (and please don’t say helping Scotto because I hate anything to do with screwing)?

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

When Your Inheritance is at Stake



Now that I’m on holidays I have some free time to visit my parents who live down the road.

I called in to their place yesterday at morning tea time in anticipation of a happy reunion and some of Dad’s home cooking.

I knocked plaintively at the door because the curtains were drawn and there were funeral dirges playing on the stereo; the air was sombre.

Mum greeted me at the door with a deep, tragic sigh and informed me that their beloved cocker spaniel, Albert, was in his  final stage of life and they were about to call in a priest for the extreme unction ceremony and anointing of oils.

Fat Albert was lying in his bed and wagged his tail and leaped up to greet me when I sauntered in to the subdued ambiance of the kitchen .

“He looks all right to me!” I scoffed in an attempt to lighten the melancholy atmosphere.

“No,” my mother exhaled heavily, a tear sliding down her cheek. “He’s gone off his food. We’re taking him to the vet. Not the horrible vet that can’t speak English, but to a proper vet. The poor animal probably won’t see out the end of this week.”

I pitied the poor non English speaking vet for a moment then went about by unprofessional examination.

I felt the spoiled creature’s ribs which still seemed to be adequately encased in a layer of fat (as far as my probing fingers were able to determine anyway). This is a dog who will most probably inherit my inheritance. I secretly wanted to pinch it to tell the truth. I wanted to pinch it hard.

When the cups of tea came out, Dad brought out a plate of shortbread biscuits.

“Here, Albert!” I called. “Come and have a biccy.” I whispered under my breath, “You little fudging faker”.
The dog approached me with bright eyes and wagging tail and snatched the shortbread from my hand, gobbling it up like a dog ready for a good old, rambunctious fox chase across the moors... or like Lassie finally coming home to Timmy... or like Rin Tin Tin alerting the WW1 soldiers about the approach of an enemy tank.

I gave the little fraud another biscuit… and another. Each biscuit was voraciously seized from my hand with a zealous, hungry ferocity which left distinct and painful fang marks in my knuckles.

“Well! He seems to have picked up a bit…” commented my mother.


Hmmm. Inheritance safe for another day.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Why I Haven't Been Blogging

Tuna the Dog


Tomorrow is the last day of school.

But guess who has a job again at the same beautiful, little country school next year?

I KNOOOOOOW! I’m ecstatic.

We had our staff Christmas party last Saturday and it was held up on my mountain so two of my teacher buddies had a sleep over and … well… let’s just say we bonded over eighties music and about eighteen bottles of wine.

On Tuesday night, the grade sixes had their graduation so (to avoid driving home at night) I had a sleep over at my teacher buddy, Catherine Mary’s house.

At first she put me in the bedroom next to hers and then she must have remembered that I kept her awake with my gentle snoring on school camp… so she shunted me right to the back of the house.

“I don’t want you to stay awake all night worrying about snoring,” Catherine Mary insisted magnanimously.

The idea had never entered my head. Why would I worry about that? It’s never worried me before. 

She’s such a thoughtful creature.

The last thing Catherine Mary told me about before we retired, was the fact that massive huntsmen spiders liked to run in and out of the open, unscreened windows in her rambling Old Queenslander. 

Needless to say, I had an exceptionally light sleep that night and consequently didn’t snore at all. 

It was nice of her to warn me though.

We went for a lovely walk in the morning before school and this is a photo that Catherine Mary took of the little town I work in.

Catherine Mary's awesome shot


Gorgeous isn’t it?

This is why I haven’t been blogging lately. I’ve been busy.

Today we took the kids to a place near Brisbane for ten pin bowling and laser skirmish. Because there was no room on the bus, I was allowed to drive and meet them all there. Naturally, I became hopelessly lost. I was still earlier to arrive than they were though because the bus driver got lost too.

I’ve just been busy wrapping Christmas presents for our end of year staff lunch tomorrow and I’ve sent Scotto up to the bottlo because I forgot something. He’s also on a mission to buy some chick starter and sawdust because one of the teachers at work is giving me three newborn chicks tomorrow. 

Scotto and I are already bickering over which Game of Thrones characters we’ll name them after.

Apparently these chicks are a cross between Pekins and Modern Game.

This is a picture of a Modern Game chicken.



Ugly, huh? They look like roadrunners. I don’t care though. 

I like ugly animals, in fact, the uglier the better.

I want a pet that can make me some money. It’s about time one of my pets started paying out.

There’s the famous “Tuna the dog”, and “Grumpy Cat”, and a fairly well-known porcupine but I don’t think there are any famous ugly chickens so perhaps mine shall be the first.



Now that the holidays are upon us, you can expect to hear a lot more from Pinky Poinker, but after today I won’t be posting on my own personal timeline (so as not to alienate my friends who hate Pinky’s guts, and believe me, there are some).

However, if you want to torture yourself you had better like Pinky’s Facebook page or you'll never hear from her again.

CLICK HERE!

Love youse all xxx




Saturday, November 18, 2017

Damaged Goods



It was last Sunday morning when I sashayed into the vacuum cleaner selling place bearing a strong resolve NOT to be rude to the salesman. 

I usually find vacuum salesman to be of a highly irritating disposition and considering the fact I was about to purchase one of the most troublesome of household appliances, I knew in my heart that it would take all my strength to keep a civil tongue in my head.

I’d spent Sunday morning violently sneezing and after surmising my aggressive allergic reaction was the result of the twenty million, billion dust mites overrunning every crevice of my house, I’d dragged out my three year old, seventy dollar vacuum cleaner and begun the dreaded task of cleaning.

Naturally, the cheap piece of crap decided to cark it at the crucial moment and I exploded in a violent fury and marched out to Scotto, who was outside building the deck, and emotionally declared that we had to proceed at once to the vacuum cleaner selling place.

“I’m not spending more than two hundred dollars,” I wheezed and snuffled into a tissue on the drive down the mountain. “And I don’t want one with bags or a fudging cord. Don't let them talk me into it!”

How many wasted years of my life I’ve spent untangling cords, tripping over cords and ripping electric sockets out of the wall by cords, I couldn’t tell you.

“I have four dogs,” was my initial petulant reply to Derry (the vacuum cleaner salesman) on Sunday morning when he politely asked if he could ‘help me’.

“I need something cheap but effective,” I ranted. “I want something strong enough to suck a German Shepherd through a straw.”

I emphasised the word ‘cheap’.

I must admit, he was not at all pushy. He informed us that bags were preferable to bagless because of the ‘cleaning of the filter’ issue and that cordless vacuum cleaners only hold their charge for EIGHT MINUTES.

It takes me at least an hour to vacuum my house. Can you imagine the frustration, the utter rage, the bitter hostility which would arise if I was forced to stop proceedings every eight minutes in order to recharge the useless machine.

I walked out of there $500 poorer with a vacuum cleaner that had a very long cord and needed a constant supply of bags.

After I finished cleaning the house, my cautious review of the said appliance was a cool 6/10.

It was acceptable. I won’t say I liked it, but I didn’t hate its guts. I didn’t feel the need to bash it against the wall or fling it down the driveway and that’s quite promising.

You’re not allowed to use it,” I said to Scotto pointedly, suspecting the last vacuum had died because of his rampant use of it when vacuuming up bits of plaster.

He assumed a downcast expression.

“What about if I just want to vacuum my office?” he enquired pitifully.

“I suppose that will be alright,” I agreed reluctantly, knowing in my heart he NEVER vacuumed his office, “as long as you don’t go vacuuming up all your little screws with it.”

Someone else using my brand new vacuum cleaner would defile it. It would be rendered corrupt, tarnished, sullied.

I just couldn’t bear the thought.

As I drove home on Monday afternoon, I suddenly had a horrible premonition that Scotto had used my new vacuum cleaner while I was at work... but I brushed the menacing vision away. Surely he wouldn’t have dared to use it so soon… surely?

Well… he had used it.

Of course.

Scotto can’t resist using anything new.

And now I feel as though my beautiful, new vacuum cleaner has been besmirched, its virginity has been spoiled, it’s a ruined woman.

I don’t think I like it at all now.




Sunday, November 12, 2017

Pinky Goes Outlander Style

Dad on his steed


Scotto and I like to do something novel on weekends, apart from drinking, so lately we’ve been going horse riding.

This silly idea was entirely inspired by watching ‘War Horse’ one night (when we were drinking) and I lavishly pronounced that we should go and ride horses at once.

“That horse is so lovely.” I exclaimed to Scotto whilst observing the handsome and gallant War Horse. “I want to ride a horse just like him and have my hair flying in the wind with the rain on my face.”

Scotto never needs a second hint and before I knew it, we were booked for a two hour trail ride in the Gold Coast hinterland.

It was all right. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I enjoyed it… but it was all right.

Unfortunately, about four weeks later, we (were again drinking) watching Outlander on the telly, where there are quite a lot of very good looking, heroic people riding valiant horses...


 and I once again made the mistake of mentioning to Scotto that I should like a bit of equine activity.

“We should take Dad!” I enthused. “He loves horses.”

Dad is eighty two years of age and even though he is very fit and still has a four pack (which is quite extraordinary for a man his age), his usually dutiful daughter should not encourage him to put himself in treacherous and uncertain circumstances.

I sort of forgot about this whole discussion, but Scotto remembered (most inconveniently) and brought the subject up at our regular Sunday get together with my parents.

My mother was against my father’s engagement in this reckless scheme from the start, but after some earnest assurances to her that the horses were extremely gentle and that we barely get beyond a trot, she eventually acquiesced to the adventure.

I still felt a great deal of guilt however and hovered around my father like a bird over a chick until I saw him (dressed in his drizabone and proper riding boots) hoik himself onto the horse with all the physical fitness of the Man from Snowy River. He rode like the old school horseman he is and suffered no ill effects.

In the meantime, it took me three goes at mounting my flea-bitten nag even though I was standing on a milk crate.

However, apart from my horse scratching its entire body against a tree forcing me to lift my foot out of the stirrup and elevate my leg up in the air, most unbecomingly, in order to prevent its instant pulverisation, I suppose the ride was… all right.


One thing is certain however, Scotto and I really MUST stop watching movies starring horses.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Who Knocked Over the Water Bowl Again?



Last Sunday, Scotto and I strolled through the aisles of the IGA in a leisurely fashion when I abruptly stopped in front of a stand holding a stuffed, rainbow coloured, unicorn.

“I would buy this for Pablo the Chihuahua, however I know the little b#stard would rip it to pieces and then I’d have to pick up fluff for the next week,” I sighed, picturing in my mind the unfortunate “stuffed reindeer” incident last Christmas.

Pablo destroys every stuffed animal we buy for him. Firstly he blinds the creature by gnawing out its eyes, then he lovingly maims it in a slow, torturous manner, one ear/limb at a time. 


Finally the blameless effigy is disembowelled, beheaded and at last quartered, just as William Wallace was so violently executed by King Edward’s loyal soldiers.

“We should buy this for Celine,” Scotto announced, picking up a quite large rubber ball.

Celine eschews baby toys of the stuffed variety but adores anything bouncy.

I felt a bit guilty arriving home with only one present for one dog, but that’s what happens when you are a brutal, homicidal slayer of innocent, stuffed toys; you miss out.

To mention that Celine has been taking pleasure from her gift would be a gross understatement. I'm beginning to think the unicorn might have been a better option.


This is what we have had to put up with each and every evening…



Sunday, October 22, 2017

Why Jumping Castles should be Banned from Existence




An event took place at school yesterday and I spent my Saturday afternoon and evening on crowd control duty in a rather small room, with 200 buoyant children who were in more than avid attendance. 

After it all finished, I endured a long drive, swerving around indiscriminate marsupials, who appeared to be on a suicidal mission, in the dark and ominous dampness. I recalled Wolf Creek and its antagonist many times during the journey. 

 I arrived home at 10 pm in a quite exhausted state. 

All I wished to do today was to relax… sans over-excited, screaming children. I’d had enough of under elevens.

After much passionate dialogue, Scotto and I eventually resolved we’d give Mel Gibson’s pub another go for lunch because the view is so attractive and we thus set off.

It was pleasing to see that the establishment had removed the offensive smoked chicken from the menu and I hoped my passive protest had not a small influence on that decision and looked forward to a decent meal.

What was not so pleasing, however, was largely influenced by this malevolent, foreboding structure set up in the middle of the fucking beer garden.

Fucking Jumping Castle


Nothing, and I mean NOTHING sets off exuberant shrieks, anguished laments resulting from two toddlers inopportunely smashing their heads together, or outraged tantrums with kids running off bawling in ear-piercing howls that communicate threats such as, ‘I’m telling on you to my mother, Corey!!!’ than a jumping castle.

A jumping castle in a beer garden is an abomination of the highest of highest orders.

Nevertheless, we had a table and we were settled.

Meanwhile, settled at the table beside us, were two mothers and three children who were thoroughly enjoying their plates of chicken nuggets and chips.

The three children, stimulated by the unnatural additives in their soft drinks, began to chant in raucous voices, “Yum, yum, eat my bum!”

I have no answer as to why they began this chant but suspect they liked the sound of the word ‘bum’ as well as the fact that ‘bum’ is rhymed with ‘yum’.

This was at first amusing I suppose but it went on for a quite some time, relentlessly actually, until one of the mothers finally intervened. “That is enough of the ‘bum’ word," she entreated the group gently. "Stop."

Silence ensued for about ten seconds until one of the more creative little boys began to chant, “Yum, yum, eat my doodle!”

Naturally, this threw me into a fit of immature, hysterical laughter. Scotto was dissolved in an infantile paroxysm of giggles. The mother, however, who was understandably mortified, began to scold the small boy who then began to inconsolably bawl his heart out while I was attempting to eat my bruschetta with some semblance of placidity.


I do love children but I also hope my own grown up children are practising safe sex for the time being.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

The Mulberries



My father gave me a large bowl of home grown mulberries last week and I took a handful to school as a snack.

I was thrilled as I haven’t eaten mulberries since I was ten years of age and I love to receive free, organic produce.

I nibbled on them as I strolled around the playground whilst on duty.

“Mrs Poinker, your teeth are pink,” a well-meaning little grade one student, hanging upside down on the monkey bars, stoically informed me.

“Your teeth are blue,” I countered, observing the stain from a blue icy pole encircling the cheeky inverted mouth.

“But your teeth look scary,” the small creature replied, dropping to the soft fall and moving in for a closer inspection.

A collection of inquisitive, tiny children gathered around me, staring at my teeth in horrified fascination.

As soon as the bell went I raced into the bathroom to inspect the damage. All my teeth were indeed heavily stained but one particular tooth, my fake front tooth, looked as if it had been soaking in concentrated, heavy duty Red Dye 40 for at least a few decades.

I was terrified. What if the material the fake tooth was made of had absorbed the juice and I was destined to live the rest of my life with one bright magenta-coloured front tooth.

I swished water in a passionate and relentless manner for the rest of the day and by the time I arrived home it had faded to a rose pink.

By evening it had diminished to a romantic pastel.

Only a vestige of pink tinge remained in the morning.

That is the last time I ever eat mulberries.

But what else can I do with them? Tie dye t-shirts? Batik Printing?

P.S. Of late I have become utterly obsessed with Jane Austen. I have begun a separate blog site called Jane Aussie Austen where I intend to write Austenesque posts about my every day life. Dear Reader, I would never inflict this on you without your permission, however if you would like to follow it here is the link...

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Happy Birthday Mother!



It’s my mother’s birthday on Tuesday so Scotto and I called in before taking her and Dad out for lunch today.

“Here’s your present,” I announced, handing over a card/voucher with an accompanying scented candle.

“Oh I can’t use scented candles,” she replied. “They aggravate my sinuses, but I’ll put this in the cupboard and you can have the one you gave me for last Christmas back. It’s in the same cupboard.”

“But it’s a special soy candle,” I persevered. “I bought it especially with your sinuses in mind.”

She went off to swap the candles.

So now I have a new candle and it’s not my birthday

We arrived at the café of my dear mother’s choice and I was in a bit of a bad mood because the café was facing a car park and I hate eating in places with no atmosphere. I like a bit of beach… or at least a water feature.

There WAS the atmosphere of hydrocarbons, nitrogen oxide, carbon monoxide, sulphur dioxide and other hazardous greenhouse gases, I suppose, and also Mum insisted the food was top notch so I decided to be accepting of the fact that it was her birthday not mine and to stop being a selfish biartch.

My mother is strange with her choice of eateries. Once, when we were visiting, she suggested Sunday breakfast at a certain café. When we arrived via the GPS we discovered the café was inside a major shopping centre. Nothing else was open; just a sad little café with no other patrons but ourselves and a view of the roller door of a closed Sportsgirl store.

Another time she suggested lunch at a restaurant attached to a theatre in the middle of nowhere. We arrived at the restaurant and as there was no theatrical production going on and it was completely vacated, we were the only ones there. It too, faced a car park.


So, in great disappointment, but with a hopeful demeanour, I walked to the counter to order a calming, alcoholic, revitalising round of drinks in order to save me from this new affront to my sensibilities.

“I’m sorry,” said the lady serving, “you can’t order alcoholic drinks without ordering food.”

I was perplexed in the extreme. “But we ARE going to order food,” I stammered. “We just want a drink while we’re looking at the menu.”

She shook her head gravely. “You have to order the drink WITH the food.”

I felt my blood pressure edge up and I’m sure my ears went red.

I’m ashamed of myself because I’m sorry to say I gave her a decidedly fake smile when I said, “Allllllllrighty then,” and strutted off in a shit.

When we’d finally ordered and had our beverages in front of us, Dad began talking about how they’d had to purchase water for their empty rainwater tanks the previous week. The mountain hadn’t had rain for ages and everyone was running out of water.

“Why didn’t you just fill up the tanks with the hose?” I asked.

Dad just stared at me... then he got the joke. Either that or he was humouring me, I'm not sure.

To tell the truth, my mother has always asserted, most strenuously, that my father is eccentric, but I am now suspecting they are both quite peculiar.

Thank God it doesn’t run in the family.

On a cheerier note, we gave two of our chickens a warm bath today due to their poo-encrusted bottoms.

Hodor

Ygritte


They are walking with a much easier gait now!

So tell me, do you have any eccentric people in your family?



It was definitely an occasion for surgical gloves.

Monday, October 2, 2017

I Don't Wanna Be a Pirate!



I finally bit the bullet and signed up to Ancestry DNA historical records and wow… just wow.

I traced all my dad’s great grandfathers back to the 1500s and came to a dead end at Nicholas De Venoix, who was born in Normandy, France, so that explains my penchant for cheese and wine and stripey t-shirts.




Scotto has declared since learning of this marital affiliation, 

"I shall be taunting people a second time and I shall cease to take showers and continue to speak in an outraaaageous accent."

My mother’s ancestral side is a much more mysterious and delightfully scandalous story of which I have made a quite insanely titillating and intriguing discovery… but I can’t tell you about it or not only will I be disinherited but I may wake up in my bed with the head of a Chihuahua on my pillow case.

Let’s just say that DNA reveals all.

Speaking of insane things, one of my great, great grannies died in an insane asylum in London, poor thing.

What… ? Runs in the family?

One of my great, great, great grandfathers was sentenced to 6 months hard labour at the Old Bailey for fraud and his name was Silas.

Finally there is someone exciting in the family history.

I’m calling my next pet, Silas.

I also had a great grandfather named, Solomon Catt and naturally my next cat will be called Solomon.

My great, great grandfather, John, was “heavily tattooed, wore an earring and a large beard, had worked on ships sailing the world, was very grumpy and scared all the children silly” and we suspect he was a pirate which, even though it’s no claim to fame, is thrilling all the same.

It was a relief to note that the majority of the grandparents lived to a ripe old age, even though one set spawned twenty children. One grandfather lived to one hundred so the good news is I’ll hopefully be around to annoy you for a little while yet.


 Unless of course, one of my ancestors decides they don't like my blog and tries to kill me from the 'other side' which I fear might be actually happening.

I walked out to feed the chickens today and saw this impaled on the chair I usually sit in.


I know... glamorous photo...

Seems a bit pointed (no pun intended).


So until we meet again… au revoir monsieurs and madames.
But tell me... got any family secrets?

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Why I'm Going to Lie About My Age!



It’s my birthday on Monday and I’ve noticed that lately, when I tell people I’m almost 57 years old, there are no gasps of, “Oh no! You couldn’t possibly be! You don’t look anywhere near that old, Pinky.”
 
I wait for it. But the shock and astonishment never seems to fall upon their visage.

I stare at the people in question in concentrated silence until they begin to shuffle their feet in discomfort.

I fix them with my beady eyes, searching their face for some kind of bewildered admiration.

After a while, I realise with a stunned and disappointed insight, they think I actually look my age.

So it's been decided, I'm going to start telling people I’m 67. 

Surely that should get me some compliments?

I bought my own birthday present yesterday. Scotto will reimburse me and it will be his present to me. He’s not allowed to know what it is because one of us has to be surprised on the day.

“I hope I like what you got me for my birthday,” I excitedly whispered in his ear as we snuggled in front of the telly last night. “I hope you didn’t spend too much money on me, darling.”

He looked confused for a few minutes but then light dawned on his face. He played along.

"Is it something I can wear or something I can eat?" I enquired coquettishly. "Can I shake the box? Pleassse?"

“Don’t look at the other white package on the table,” he cautioned, wagging his finger at me. “There’s another birthday surprise in it.”

“Do you mean the present from the kids?” I scoffed. “But I already know what that is, silly! I told you to tell them what I wanted!”
A weary expression spread over his face. I could see he wasn’t going to play my game anymore.

To be truthful, I have a strong suspicion Scotto is attempting to kill me before I reach my next milestone.

Remember the mountain’s Scarecrow Festival I wrote about last year? Well this year Scotto entered his own scarecrow to promote his computer business in the community.

I was leaving for work last week and as I opened the front door, I caught this in my peripheral vision.



I jumped out of my skin, swearing loudly. 

I’d thought it was a big yellow carrot-creature come to slit my throat.

Cursing Scotto under my breath, I bent down to pour Whiskers in the cat bowl and endured a second coronary event when I stood up and spotted the behemoth five seconds later; then again, as I pulled out of the driveway and glimpsed the malevolent monster, towering menacingly at the front door.



I was very glad when Scotto took the terrifying thing away for display.

Yesterday, as I was taking a box of wine bottles out to the bin, I rounded the corner and swiftly dropped said box, smashing glass everywhere when I sighted this freak hanging over the fence leering at me.



I swear Scotto is planting the evil stuffed thing in odd places in an ill-disguised endeavour to murder me via a devastating cardiac arrest. 

If I am found dead in bed with this thing next to me on Monday morning then you will know who caused my sudden demise.

But you’ll be pleased to hear I am still alive at the moment and getting very excited about the impending B day even though I will be turning the magic 67.
I know! How the years fly by.

Feel free to comment on how you can't believe I'm 67.


Saturday, September 16, 2017

What the Dickens? It's School Holidays!



It was with carrying a not desolate and bleak, destitute heart in which I departed my dear place of industrious labour yesterday and set afoot on my extensive and arduous journey back to my soothing and familiar home where my dear husband sat in the dewy, green, back garden, anxiously awaiting my appearance and wearing a ponderous and expectant visage with many a gentle sigh forthcoming from his broad chest; but with a happy one.

If you haven’t guessed, I’ve been listening to Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield on audio all week.
NB: the Dickens' character NOT the magician.
I shall carry on with a similar style of rubbish for the remainder of my post.

My dear reader, I can not for the life of me, express what an immense relief it is to be finally freed of the stifling and oppressive establishment that is school life. Not only shall I be liberated from the dreadful clamour of the beseeching and regimented bleating of the alarm clock at a time before the cock crows every morn, but I shall be enabled to slumber to my heart’s content on each and every morning for the next thirteen days plus one.

No more will one such self be mandated to travel out of one’s way to visit Aldi to shop for nourishing substances for one’s pets on an already gruelling and toilsome excursion on return to one’s abode, but one shall be able to visit the said store on a whimsy, a mere whimsy, my dear fellow.

There shall be joy and merriment celebrated on every minute ticked by the clock, on every whisper in the breeze as I sup on my port wine in the fire lit parlour; on every glittering view I glimpse from my chaise lounge as I repose in a reflective introspect whilst gathering my weary thoughts, cupping my steaming mug in my withered hands.

The long forgotten night terrors revitalising hideous recollections of the tedious marking of badly spelled persuasive essays, the horrors of an all-day soccer gala day, the utter dreadfulness of a disconcerting and strenuous school camp… will slowly dissolve into a faded and indistinct memory.

In short, my dear reader, the school term has at last come to a hasty and propitious end and my future lies like a glittering jewel in the crown of a great monarch with all the promise of a something one might only dream of on the sweetest and most headiest of nights whilst drowning in the aromas of all the night flowers blooming in the most intoxicating and reckless of manner.


And so I leave you, perhaps perplexed as to what you just read, perhaps quietly snickering at the jumbled and disorderly mind that is Pinky Poinker, perhaps quietly nodding in mournful pity at the wonders of a truly mad and tangled mind. Whatever, sir, I wish you a good and happy life and a very nice school holiday.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Pinky's Restaurant Review!



I look forward to Saturday because Scotto takes me out for lunch.

It’s like ‘date night’, except we call it, ‘date day’.

Today, we decided on Mel Gibson’s pub on the mountain for our weekly romantic assignation.

We’d just hiked for an hour down to a waterfall and back and we were both starving to death.

I sat down with my piccolo of champagne in peckish anticipation and excitedly ordered a smoked chicken salad. I normally don’t eat chicken (or any meat, except fish) but I’ve had the flu for the last four weeks and thought some iron might be good for me.

When the waiter eventually placed my plate down in front of me, I scrutinised it with bleak suspicion.

I prudently picked around the plate with my fork, like a surgeon inspecting an inflamed intestine for obstructive, malignant tumours.

“What’s wrong, Pinky?” asked Scotto, ravenously slicing his medium rare rump with a razor-sharp steak knife and licking his lips.

“The chicken is pink!” I whined. “I don’t trust pink chicken, Scotto. I could get food poisoning.”

“I think it’s just the juice from the red onion,” he reassured me, a bit too casually for my liking to be honest.

I cautiously took a tiny nibble.

“It’s ham!” I shrieked, spitting it back on to my plate.

The people at the next table paused and gaped, forks halfway to their mouths.

The strange flesh had the texture and taste of ham. It even had ham rind on it. I was appalled.

Scotto, examining fake chicken/ham.


If there’s one thing I don’t eat, it is pig.

Why?

1. Pigs have similar DNA to humans. Would you eat a child?

2. When humans burn, they apparently smell like pork cooking. Would you eat a burning child?

3. Pigs are very cute and one day I will have one as a pet. It will be called, Babe or perhaps Wilbur.

4. Pigs have worms.



Scotto, highly frustrated and mildly vexed at this turn of events, miserably carried my meal back up to the kitchen, glancing back at his steak with yearning as it sat, neglected and cooling on his plate.

He returned triumphantly, announcing that the ‘manager’ had it all under control and was sorting it all out.

Within twenty seconds, I spotted the ‘manager’ heading our way, balancing my plate in one hand as he careened through the beer garden, his face a blood red, the shade of a slaughtered pig.

“It’s not ham,” he wheezed triumphantly. “It’s smoked chicken. Apparently it just looks like ham. We can get you something else if you prefer…”

I smiled sweetly. “S’ok,” I simpered. “Thank you very much, sir. Of course it’s chicken, silly me. Sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

I watched him walk back up to the kitchen. No doubt, back to the chef where the two of them would laugh at the stupid woman customer who couldn’t tell the difference between ham and chicken.

“I’m. Not. Fudging. Eating. One. Disgusting. Bite,” I snarled savagely as soon as the alleged ‘manager’ was out of sight.

“Why not?” Scotto queried, chomping on some juicy steak, blood trickling, Viking-like, down his chin.

“Because they probably fudging spat on my fudging meal!” I hissed, pushing the plate away in a hangry fit of temper. “Or they pooped in it more likely.”

“Pinky. They wouldn’t spit or poo in your food or they’d lose their licence,” Scotto half-heartedly cajoled, popping a delectable chip in his gob and smacking his lips.

“Bullshit!” I sulked, pulling all the slices of artificial chicken out of the salad and making a huge pile on the side of the plate, just to make a point.



“Mind you,” I conceded, “they probably wouldn’t have had time to squeeze out a poo. It’s probably just spit and phlegm.”
I sat there, eating nothing, mouth dribbling copiously as I watched Scotto sop up his steak juice with crunchy chips and slurp them into his mouth with rapture.

When the waiter came to collect my uneaten meal I made a point of asking for a ‘chicken bag’ not a doggy bag.

“I’m going to feed it ALL to my chickens,” I announced meaningfully, my gimlet eye fixed on the poor youth, in spiteful retribution for my failed date-day.

I hoped the waiter would notice that I’d eaten nothing of the fake chicken food and show the fudging ‘chef ‘what I thought of his fudging crap cooking, but he was too busy laughing at my request of a ‘chicken bag’ and started telling me stories about his own chickens.

So guys, we won’t be going back to Mel Gibson’s pub ever. Sorry Mel, but your chef doesn’t know his livestock.

My cannibal chickens enjoyed eating the fake chicken/pig, and I’m still very hangry.

Scotto probably has indigestion from his steak which probably serves him right. I don’t know if he does or not. I’m too cranky with him to ask because, in some obscure small way, I’m sure it’s all his fault.

Saturday, September 2, 2017

One Smart Fellow, He Felt Smart.



The line in the title of this post is the beginning of a tongue twister the PE instructors taught our classes on school camp last week at Lake Moggelydoogelly. I was there for two nights and three days with my buddy teacher and the two school principals.

There were expert instructors who ran our activities over the three days and two nights and they, in their youthful exuberance, heightened my self-awareness, that I have indeed developed into an elderly, decrepit and whinging old crone.

“What fresh hell is this?” I’d mutter to myself, grimacing in deep suspicion at the commencement of every new physical challenge.

There was the three and half hour hike over a rocky hill and up to the top of a lofty, snake infested gorge.



 There was the three hour canoeing expedition where (with aching arms) I steered two frightened little boys clad in life jackets on an inexorable journey across an icy and sinister lake. 


There was the two hour mountain biking activity where I may have shouted an expletive within range of several children’s earshot as I death-defyingly plummeted down a jagged slope towards a broad eucalyptus trunk, legs flailing and grasping desperately for the elusive brake.

After each daring trial, my principal would spot me limping piteously up the path and ask chirpily, “Did you have a good time, Pinky?” To which I would stare at him through bloodshot eyes and reply tersely, “No. Not really. Not at all actually, but thanks for asking.”

I sat beside him tugging off my runner one morning, “I think there’s something biting my toe,” I complained bitterly. “But don’t worry about it, it’s probably just a red-back spider.”
I turned out to be just some sock cotton wound tightly around my toe.

Then there was the whole ‘feeding the children thing’ three times a day.

One little student refused to eat anything except bread and cake for three days. “Oh well,” commented my buddy. “He will probably have trouble going to the toilet after this. Not that any of us here will be going to the toilet while we’re here, of course.” She added pointedly.

I turned to stare at her with a renewed sense of admiration.

She too, was a ‘never poo away from home’ girl.

All my colleagues back in Townsville teased me no end because I could never stay on girl’s weekends for more than one night and here I was finally buddied up with a like-minded poo girl. Unless, of course, she was merely attempting to warn me off pooping in our shared toilet for the duration of the camp.

I think the worst thing was that I was sick. I had a relapse of the flu I’d had a couple of weeks ago and woke up every morning with a deep, rattling cough and a drag queen voice.

Not that there was much sleep to be had what with homesick children, children with weak, but urgent bladders and squabbling, rambunctious possums and eerie, werewolf-like howls emanating from the surrounding bushland.

I tried to pretend I was on that show, Survivor and at night I would pretend I was in rehab.

It would have been so much more manageable with a cheeky red wine around the bonfire every night.

But it’s all part of being a teacher. The kids loved every second of the camp and even though every muscle in my body is screaming and after the bike riding I’m walking like a King’s Cross hooker, I managed to get through it.

Two smart fellows, they felt smart.

Three smart fellows, they all felt smart.

And they all smelt fart together.

Damn, I’ll never get it right.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

The Horn Birds



To pass time on my 75 minute commute to work (other than gasping at the gloriously, bucolic scenery at every turn), I’ve been listening to audio books. I’ve exhausted the entire works of Bill Bryson and, filled to the eye sockets with history and science, I thought I’d switch to fiction.

I’ve been meaning to read The Thorn Birds for the last thirty years and despite having it on my bookshelf, never got round to it. It seemed a bit thick and small-printed for an intellectual pygmy such as myself.

At the first ten minutes of the audio version, I was hypnotised. 

It’s rivetting. 

I was vaguely aware the plot had something to do with a priest and an illicit affair because I saw previews of the mini-series but never fancied the gaunt and slightly effeminate Richard Chamberlain so didn’t bother watching it.

Clearly one of the females in the book gets raunchy with the priest and I’m still unsure which one at this stage.

I began investigating the matter on Wikipedia but quickly snapped the computer closed with a great deal of willpower and restraint before I could spoil the story for myself.

I asked one of my colleagues, Deb, if there were any ‘passion scenes’ in the novel.

She raised one eyebrow at me and an enigmatic smile passed her lips. “Yes, Pinky, there are some ‘passion scenes’ in it, I suppose,” then she seemed to go off in a bit of a reverie, staring into the distance, her cheeks glowing with a rosy hue.

I must add that Deb told me she reads the book every six weeks or so.

The reason I asked her though, is that I tend to drive with my audio turned up so high it would make most people’s eardrums bleed out. Scotto can hear me coming from five kilometres down the road. Whilst reading Bill Bryson’s ‘Down Under’, people at traffic lights were laughing along with me at the jokes.

There are at least three sets of roadworks on my journey to work where I’m mandated to pull over beside a jaded, high-vis-jacket-wearing traffic controller. I’d hate to be sitting in my car, wantonly enjoying a particularly titillating, bodice-ripping scene whilst a burly, bearded traffic controller stares at me curiously through my windscreen.

It would be … awkward.

There was one scene in the book where the priest was dancing around naked in the rain and the word ‘flaccid’ was mentioned but that’s as bawdy as it’s been so far which is disappointing. And also the narrator is American so they pronounce 'flaccid' in a very non-sexy manner. She said it like, 'flak-sid'. That's not how it's pronounced is it? I've never been 'flaccid' so it's never been important before. Not that I think being 'flaccid' is in the slightest a sexy thing... but, anyway I seem to be getting off topic.

The truth is, I’m really looking forward to the passion scenes more than I should be but I might have to get some ear plugs to protect the traffic controllers and random livestock dotting the fields.



Have you read the Thorn Birds and did you love it?

P.S. Just to ease your mind I looked it up and you can pronounce 'flaccid' both ways.


ˈflasɪd,ˈflaksɪd/
adjective
  1. (of part of the body) soft and hanging loosely or limply, especially so as to look or feel unpleasant.


Who knew?

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Advice to my Daughter on her 21st Birthday



#1 Don’t be like your mother

Last Friday it was Grandparents’ Day at school. Grandparents are honoured with a special assembly and get to visit the classrooms where each grandchild has fashioned a little gift depending on the whims, fancies and creative prowess of the classroom teacher.

We grade four teachers had decided on cardboard teapots which the students would laboriously, but lovingly, colour in and cut out. It was up to me to merely purchase the teabags to plop into the completed articles.

Five minutes after the kids had left for the day on Thursday, I poked my head into my buddy teacher’s classroom. There were beautifully decorated teapots littering the desks and it suddenly hit me like a metre ruler to the face that I had failed to remember to get my kids to do their teapots.

“Please tell me Grandparent’s Day isn’t tomorrow!” I screeched desperately to my buddy.

She just looked confused for a moment, doubting herself, so strong was my panicked conviction that she’d been the one to get the date wrong, not me.

So I lugged home the stencilled sheets and a handful of colouring pencils and that evening I fastidiously cut out the fiddly things while Scotto sat, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, happily colouring in like an eight year old.

“These pencils aren’t very good, Pinky! They keep breaking and I need more pretty colours!” he complained, going off in search of my eye liner sharpener.

He was very slow. I think he was having trouble staying in the lines. I fought back an urge to rap him over the knuckles.

In the end I told him to stop colouring because it was taking too long and I found a Better Homes and Gardens magazine and pasted flowers and cakes all over the teapots instead.

I managed to get them all finished and the students presented them to their grandparents with an air of unwarranted pride.

My beautiful daughter turns 21 today. She is in her third year of an education degree and in about 12 months, she will be a primary teacher.

Imagine how proud that makes me feel.

Hopefully, she will more aware of her surroundings than I am.

I have no other advice for her because… well… she’s perfect.



Happy birthday gorgeous Tweetie-Bird xxx



Saturday, August 12, 2017

Facebook Misunderstandings



Sometimes I feel guilty about my Facebook posts and the things I inflict on my friends; relentless photos of my spoiled, hate-filled Chihuahua, obscure and irrelevant observations on the meaning of life and the occasional, tipsy, angry rant at the government.

Last week I wrote an unintelligible comment about me suffering the ill effects of a head cold accompanied by a random photo of a decidedly sick, but arbitrary chicken I’d sourced from Google.

Everyone thought it was my chicken who was sick so I received no sympathy but lots of lovely messages directed towards the unidentified chicken.

I was a bit upset about that… but I brought it on myself, I suppose.

The truth is that one of my chickens is actually mortally sick now. He’s been quite off for about six months and I’ve been researching the symptoms on the Internet. 

He’s stumbling around like me on a Saturday night after a long lunch with Scotto and yesterday he performed three, very feathery, dramatic forward rolls and then couldn’t get up again… just like me on a Saturday night after a long lunch with Scotto.

It was very upsetting to witness.

Today, in a last ditch effort to reclaim an innocent and virtuous, galline life, Scotto and I headed down to Uncle Tom’s Chicken Establishment in order to acquire some chicken antibiotics.

“Is that the same sickly rooster you asked me about months ago?” asked the incredulous lady at Uncle Tom’s.

She was probably wondering why we haven’t taken an axe to it.

“I think he might have an ear infection,” I stammered nervously. “I’ve looked it up on all the chicken forums.”

She looked at me with a sense of benevolence and leaned in confidingly. “You know he might just be a special needs rooster,” she whispered. "Inbreeding is a common thing around these parts," she added supportively.

“No!” I barely stopped myself from shouting at her. “He’s not special needs! He just has an ear infection!”

So anyway, tonight he is locked in the cat cage with the (expensive) antibiotics fizzing malevolently away in his water supply and I’m expecting a miraculous recovery by tomorrow.

If not… (fx) sound of axe being sharpened.


Thursday, August 3, 2017

I'm Not Judging...

It's not my foot but it could be...


Scotto and I were standing in the queue at Aldi on Saturday, when I suddenly noticed a guy in front of us wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt, circa 2005.

‘Cool,’ I thought (even though I would never say the word ‘cool’ out loud because it’s 2017 not 1967 anymore). 

Scotto and I recently had an argument because he kept saying ‘cool and I became irritable with him and in defence, he accused me of saying ‘True Dat’ which apparently annoyed him quite a bit and we promised never to say either vapid phrase again in each other’s presence. We made passionate make-up love after that argument. No we didn’t. We may have done a fist- bump to celebrate, I can’t recall.

Suddenly I noticed the Pink Floyd gentleman’s son was sporting one of those geometric haircuts; his hair appeared to be sliding off his head it was so triangularly cut. I couldn’t help staring. I don’t care about kids with startlingly geometric haircuts but I do wonder about the point of them and if the hairdressers that can still do them are becoming a rarity because they are all either retired or dead because they spent their heyday in the 1970s taking drugs and having parties with Vidal Sassoon at Club 54. Apparently some people think angular hairdos are still fashionable. Good for them.

Anyway, for some obscure reason I glanced down at this man’s feet and noticed he was not wearing shoes.

That’s okay, I mused serenely. Jesus Christ, our very own redeemer, went around the Middle East on those dusty, stone-bruising, possibly leprosy-ridden roads, sans shoes. 

Besides, we were only at Aldi... and it was Nerang after all, where pretty much anything goes. Gah, people in Nerang wear t-shirts that say things like…


Remember that woman I spotted in Nerang with a t-shirt that said, “Kill All Pedofiles” (sic).

I don’t negatively evaluate people who walk around the shops barefoot, though. Who am I to judge with my deformed left toenail and my inferior, cheap, bargain-basement footwear from Shoe Barn?

My left toenail is a particular disgrace, frankly.

I have to keep a scrupulous eye on the feral thing, let me tell you. It spends most of its leisure time burrowing up through the top of the upper segment of my shoe. Every closed-in pair of shoes I own has a hole in the left toe. I’ve had three pairs of shoes patched professionally in the last three months because my toenail has wormed its way up through the tough leather exterior of my boot/sandal/shoe.

“Mmmm,” the cobbler chuckles as he peruses my shoes with a certain bewildered amusement, “it looks like someone might have a toenail like a hacksaw, huh love?”

But, I did notice this man’s big toenails were about three centimetres long and curling over like talons.

Clearly, he had the same problem as I have and he’s just given up the ghost.

Weary of lugging his toenail-pierced boots into the shoe-repairer business people, he has just decided to fuck shoes off altogether.

Good for him I say.

If I didn’t have a job that required me to wear shoes, I’d do the same.

I wonder if there are any jobs going for a new Messiah, or even a mere disciple? Or even a job in Nerang?

*No offence to people who live in Nerang. I'm sure you're lovely.